


humanity.

by Gon (pepperedfox)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 13:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15797280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperedfox/pseuds/Gon
Summary: Still. No one would ever ask Connor and so he’d never tell, but he’s certain that once he’s decommissioned and his parts are scanned into data for the test logs, CyberLife will scrounge up all his tiny glitches. The sense of safety he felt in Amanda’s zen garden. The satisfaction of mapping a fish’s movements. The choking sensation of overwhelming fear as his optic sensors failed, the thought of which quickened his heartrate still—





	humanity.

**Author's Note:**

> just a rough and short drabble exploring connor's state of mind after he almost experiences "death."

A millisecond ago, Connor was on the linoleum floor, visual field frizzing as thirium pooled beneath him.

In the next millisecond, he wasn’t.

Systems rebooting. Recalibration of biocomponents, followed by a quick diagnostics check. Too much thirium was lost to operate at maximum efficiency, so his senses returned haphazardly as his programs scrambled to determine the optimal levels. Something— no, _someone’s_ hand was in his torso. Connor opened his eyes, recognition slow to attach to visual data.

Someone had moved him to sit him up against the wall. A man with shaggy, grey hair kneeled before him, one hand gripping Connor’s shoulder, the other slick with blue. His head was bowed, breathing ragged as if he’d been exerting himself.

“Hank,” said Connor. With the name came the rest. Stratford. The broadcast. The— “Was the deviant captured?”

His partner startled as if he received a shock. His head snapped up and his mouth moved silently in that brief, stunned moment.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Connor,” Hank said at last. He covered his eyes with his blue-stained hand and shakily exhaled. Connor waited for the next burst of anger, but it didn’t come. “For fuck’s sake,” was all Hank said, and there was raw relief in that soft repetition.

 

* * *

 

Androids needed no rest. Contrary to his organic coworkers, Connor was capable of working until his biocomponents deteriorated without feeling a thing. That was why it was a surprise to see Hank swagger into the men’s restroom, traces of ethanol tinging his breath. All dayshift officers had gone home. There was no reason for the lieutenant to remain. Yet here he was, leaning against the tiled wall with a mean squint indicating a bad mood. He said, “Jesus Christ, are you taping yourself together?”

Connor looked down at himself. At his feet were his blue-stained shirt and jacket, neatly folded. His human skin faded at the abdomen, where the damaged white chassis gleamed. The site of the puncture caused by the deviant’s punch was reminiscent of a gunshot wound. If one looked closely enough, they could see the glowing parts essential for his ‘life.’ That’s right. Biocomponents could be likened to human organs. Such a sight must be distressing to the untrained eye.

“The CyberLife mechanic won’t be here until tomorrow afternoon,” Connor said. He held up the gauze. “To reduce the loss of thirium I’ve opted to apply a tourniquet.”

To his surprise, Hank cussed. “Can’t you waltz into a store and have them patch you up?”

“I cannot, Lieutenant. I am a prototype model requiring specialized care. But rest assured, I can continue to work while waiting for the—”

“You kidding me, Connor? Your damn stomach’s been punched open!”

“No vital biocomponents have been damaged.” Though Connor studied Hank’s expression intensely—isolated each facial muscle, cross-referenced their current exchange with previous memories—he could not understand where the irritation came from or why his software registered the reaction as desirable. Negative emotions should be avoided when possible. “It won’t hinder my performance as your partner.”

“Of course an android would say that,” Hank said. He turned away and, for a second, Connor congratulated himself on defusing the conflict. But— “Get your ass to my car once you’re done. Bring the case files with you.”

“Lieutenant?”

“You heard me! Hurry up and get to it!”

 

* * *

 

“You surprised me at Stratford Tower, Lieutenant.”

“ _I_ surprised _you_? Funny.”

Hank’s car was a relic of the last century, built in a world of 80 MPH speed limits and vinyl seats. Despite its expensive upgrades, its choked oil-based engine was no match against its sleek contemporaries. The best it could do was crawl along the local streets, loud and grumbling like its owner. Though many officers offered a lift, Hank brusquely refused them each time.

It was strange for anyone to be satisfied with such inefficiency. Hank, though, was proud to brandish his eccentricity like a flag. Connor’s learned that much in their time together.

Connor stared straight ahead. The street light glared back a blaring red. “Androids are capable of conducting emergency self-repairs. The process is much more complicated for a human. Given your hatred towards androids, I assumed you’d know nothing of mechanical resuscitation.”

“I don’t know shit,” Hank said. Out of the corner of his eye, Connor saw him scowl. “You were lucky that a mechanic was on-site. All I did was follow her lead. If it wasn’t for her, you’d be dead.”

“Machines can’t die.”

“You know, Connor? Sometimes you’re a real pain in the ass for a walking scanner.”

“Naturally. After all, no other scanner is as expensive as I am.”

Hank snorted. “Plastic prick,” he said, but he sounded like he wanted to laugh.

The light turned green. The car chugged on.

“Do you remember that night at the park?” Connor asked. He watched Hank’s profile closely. “When you asked what would happen if I was terminated?”

“… yeah.”

“I believed there would be nothing. My memories would be uploaded but this iteration of ‘Connor’ would cease to be. Of course, a prototype like myself must accept the high probability of being replaced.”

Hank’s mouth set into a hard line. “And do you accept it?”

The sun was beginning to fall below the skyline. It dyed the clouds crimson and the way the color spread reminded Connor of blood in water. It was a troubling association. He shouldn’t be capable of making it in the first place.

“Right before my systems shut down there was an error,” Connor said at last. “I felt… anxious. I wasn’t prepared to end. When I saw you, I was relieved. It meant I was still here. Nothing like this happened with my previous iterations.”

Machines can’t die. Not when they were never alive to begin with. To cling to a faulty existence was a deterrent to progress. He needed Hank to deny that anxiety, to remind him his place so Connor could file the repair request with a renewed sense of purpose, certain in what he was.

“Well,” Hank said. The word hung heavy in the air. He chewed on his lip. “I’ll tell you one thing, Connor. You’re different. But I’d take that over any by-the-book asshole.”

Connor stared. It wasn’t the correct answer. For an officer assigned to hunt deviants, it was outrageous.

Hank turned away. “What’re you looking at? Yeesh. We’re here. Get out of the car.”

 

* * *

 

Androids needed no home. The concept in itself was absurdly sentimental and human. A living being desired companionship and ownership of land, however small. That was natural. A machine, on the other hand, was a tool that was to successfully perform its purpose, regardless of its environment. It performed best under optimal conditions, of course, but it would be ridiculous to assume that a machine _wanted_ those conditions for wanting, too, was inherently human.

Still. No one would ever ask Connor and so he’d never tell, but he’s certain that once he’s decommissioned and his parts are scanned into data for the test logs, CyberLife will scrounge up all his tiny glitches. The sense of safety he felt in Amanda’s zen garden. The satisfaction of mapping a fish’s movements. The choking sensation of overwhelming fear as his optic sensors failed, the thought of which quickened his heartrate still—

And now here was another glitch: a calmness that slowed the rapids of his mind into smooth streams, that eased the harried yellow of his LED to a gentler blue. Connor felt it as he sat still in the vinyl seat of Hank’s car and noticed it strengthening when he entered the detective’s squat, one-story house. It was far from an unwelcome emotion. If anything, it was comparable to when he was assigned a new mission. It granted a sense of purpose.

Of belonging.

A deep and lazy bark from the kitchen. Sumo remained out of sight, no doubt too comfortable to move. On a sudden impulse, Connor called out, “Sumo, boy!”

“He won’t come,” Hank said, and he was half-right.  The Saint Bernard peeked around the corner, gave a deep sigh that quivered his jowls, and collapsed on the spot. “Lazy bum. Take a seat, why don’t you? I need a drink before we hit the books.”

“You are already very drunk, you know.”

“Not drunk enough for me.”

It was enough for Connor, who had to experience the detective’s drunk driving. He followed his partner’s unsteady steps into the kitchen, chiding, “It would’ve been more productive to leave me at the station. You’re more interested in alcohol than murders right now.”

The fridge door slammed open, the impact causing glass to clink. Hank shoved his face deep into the cold shelves. “Yeah, and I don’t feel like playing catch-up in the morning. Sit your ass down already and quit breathin’ down my neck.”

“Are you scared, lieutenant?”

Hank stopped moving. Connor couldn’t see his expression, as his back was turned to him. “What makes you say that?”

Reading his partner was like a blind man trying to describe the colors of his surroundings. Connor knew what pushed Hank, what situations increased his volatility. But there was always something overlooked, a mundane detail that would trigged an unexpected reaction. Hank was an unpredictable puzzle not because of his anger at Connor, but his anger _for_ him. Yes, and Connor knew this because—

“You won’t let me out of your sight. Ever since we’ve left Stratford Tower, you’ve been tense. I’ve noticed this pattern of behavior not too long ago. You feel as though…” Connor hesitated, then slowly continued, “… you can’t afford to have this version of me interrupted.”

Hank took a beer. He shouldered Connor out of his way. “Yeah, cause we don’t have the time for it.”

A replacement, in fact, would be faster to send out than to repair his current damaged state. That was the logical retort, primed and ready at the forefront of his queue but something in his software blocked it from being delivered. Connor didn’t understand why, and that not knowing troubled him more than anything else he experienced in his short existence.

Hank, creased eyes ringed by dark bags and skin etched by age, seemed fragile when he was quiet. He walked with an invisible weight anchored on his shoulders, on that Connor couldn’t define but could sense. It couldn’t be shared. To ask for relief would be an insult to a man who couldn’t let anyone see him digging his own grave. That was why his emotions made little sense. Why would he worry over a “plastic prick” when he was so deep in his self-made pit? It wasn’t as if Connor was _human_.

“Connor.”

“Yes, Hank?”

“We’re partners. Fuck, I’d be the first to call you a pain in the ass because that’s exactly what you are. But a good cop can’t work without a good man. So no more of that ‘it won’t affect the mission’ crap. I need you to watch my back, not to short-circuit on the floor.”

Partners. Equals. Titles granted to living beings, not their unfeeling imitations. Humans were prone to irrational attachments, especially when they perceived human traits. How else would they have been inspired to meld androids in their image from mere plastic? Children made this mistake frequently until their parents taught them better. But Hank was far past that stage of development. Here was a man who drew a gun on Connor, who drank his problems away in human-only bars. A man who, by all rights, should treat Connor as a cumbersome piece of equipment.

Hank raised his head. His face, as always, was difficult to interpret. They locked eyes in that still moment and Connor realized he’d seen that look back at the deviant’s nest.

Gratitude.

A deep part of Connor, one he didn’t know existed, was moved. All his predictive algorithms and complex protocols couldn’t explain the glowing warmth clenched in his chest or the swell of unearned pride. No mission was accomplished, no solution was calculated – yet his system buzzed with satisfaction at the input received.

“You would trust me to do that?” Connor asked at last.

Hank raised his eyebrows. “You got any reason for me not to?”

Connor was constructed to analyze both the deviant and human psyche, granted the most advanced software CyberLife had to offer. Even so, working in the field challenged his software again and again. Hank proved a significant challenge to keep up with, more than any training simulation or deviant runaway. He was _human_ , for all his faults, something alive because of his failings, the opposite of Connor’s very foundation.

Perhaps that was why Connor needed his friendship—no, approval, for machines were incapable of such a concept—and wanted the attention. A smile, unbidden, touched Connor’s lips.

“No,” he said. “Not any you’d approve of, anyway.”

“You’ve got a mean tongue beneath that fuckin’ goofy face. All right. Now that shit’s outta the way, let’s get to work.”

This time, when Hank motioned for him to sit, Connor did so. They sat, elbows nearly touching, hunched over the holopapers. From the corner of his eyes, Connor watched Hank as he slurred over the details. Noticed the lack of body tension, the unusual softening of his haggard features though they were in such close proximity.

_He does trust me_ , Connor thought to himself, and was the most content he’d been since his initiation.


End file.
